Puppet Maker
by Illyria13
Summary: When a crew member is taken, what kinds of horrors will he face? How do you survive when everything you thought you were capable of is turned asunder? Warning: mentions of torture not too graphic and angst.
1. Ligamen Plasmator

Puppet Maker

By Illyria13

Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable from Andromeda, its characters or its ships. I only own the Captain Vinco and his crew.

AN: I hope you like this fic. It started off as a one-shot and became something else. It is a chaptered fic; this is the first chapter and hopefully I will have the next one up soon.

Timeframe: Sometime in S4, I suppose. Rhade is there and everyone is getting along fine, however that helps.

Summary: When a crew member is taken, what kinds of horrors will he face? How do you survive when everything you thought you were capable of is turned asunder?

Warning: mentions of torture (not too graphic) and angst.

Chapter 1:

"Ligamen Plasmator"

//

For the first time in a long while, he could feel the cold.

He could also feel the pain.

Like a burning blaze, it swept through his body, leaving him breathless on the floor. It was ironic really; his body was shaking with cold on the outside, yet there was a fire in his blood.

_At least, in whatever blood that was in him and not on the floor._ A broken laugh tumbled from his throat, rasping and edged with hysteria. He knew it wasn't a good sign when he was making jokes in his own head, especially when he half-expected a reply. Although, he had to admit, the observation really had been kind of funny.

Slitting his eyes open, wincing as his whole body was jarred by such a small movement, he wanted to laugh as the familiar ceiling above him came into view. Then again, he was fairly sure all the ceilings on the ship were identical. So, really, he wouldn't know if they had moved him or not.

He definitely needed to stop thinking.

The door to the room opened, causing him to squint against the sudden light, as a blinding beam illuminated the room. Taking advantage of his disorientation, his captors wasted no time in dragging him over to the chains that hung from the ceiling. They switched his previous chains for these, pulling his arms over his head and forcing him to place his weight on his legs.

The position was pure agony.

Rhade had been a soldier for a long time, been in his share of firefights and knew how to keep his focus when others around him were losing theirs.

Focusing on his injuries, he ran a mental checklist, listing his hurts like they were his own personal mantra.

Broken ribs? Check.

Dislocated shoulder? Check.

Fractured wrist? Check.

Blood in his eyes? Check.

Blood on the floor? Check.

He was torn out of his thoughts by the presence of the men in the room; even when injured and just barely hanging on to sanity, he was aware of those around him. It was, after all, a most useful tool for survival.

Glancing them over, Rhade mentally groaned as he counted how many there were. This show of force usually meant he was going to be unconscious, or damn near close to it, by the end of the round.

As the first man stepped forward, a whip clenched in his fist, Rhade braced himself for what was coming. He did have one victory: as battered as he was, they hadn't broken him yet.

He had to admit, their approach was almost Nietzschean: break the will through whatever means necessary.

Luckily for him, they hadn't found what it was that would break his mind.

He didn't fool himself.

Everyone has their breaking point, even Nietzscheans.

And the Nietzschean part of him realized, looking at the men torturing him, that they weren't the real threat. These men were the pawns in a madman's chess game. Sooner or later, Rhade knew he was going to have the pleasure of meeting the puppet master.

A backhand to his face split his lip again, the sudden metallic blood in his mouth bringing his attention back to his torturers.

"Stop."

The soft command echoed through the room, the very walls mocking Rhade as he hung from his chains.

He was a rather ordinary looking man, everything about him proportioned on average.

It was the eyes that were out of place.

They were all-seeing, all-hearing; nothing happened on the ship without this man knowing it. He was a puppeteer, a string-master, a quilt maker on a massive level. He ripped into your very soul and tore everything out of place, then strung it back together to fit his needs.

This man, the Nietzschean in him hissed, this man is the one with the power.

_Monster_

The air around Rhade suddenly appeared cooler, as if the souls of this man's previous victims were screaming their vengeance.

He inhaled deeply as the man's eyes caught his gaze, his body trembling in sudden horror.

This man had looked into the abyss, and embraced it.

Rhade looked away from the silent contest of wills first, inwardly cursing and rejoicing at the same time. Yet a hollow feeling washed through him as realization struck.

The one thing on this ship that had the power to break him had finally decided to show his hand.

He was making his move.

Rhade wasn't sure if he should feel relief or dread.

The captain passed a critical eye over him, lingering on the weeping wounds and gashes, before he spoke.

"In all the time you've been our most honored guest, did the thought ever cross your mind as to why you're here? Why you and not some other poor soul? Why not your illustrious Captain Hunt? I mean, you must have wondered."

Taking a step closer to his bound captive, his whispered voice washed through the gaping silence.

"Would you like to find out?"

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Captain Dylan Hunt sighed in frustration as yet another search came up empty.

The _Andromeda_ and her crew had been searching nonstop for their missing crew member with no luck. Every search or lead had come up empty and their stress levels were running high. The rest of the crew had learned to steer clear of the five, having learned the hard way that those closest to the missing Nietzschean were on the edge.

It didn't help that they were essentially looking blind. They had no idea as to who had taken Rhade or where they might have taken him. And any thoughts of it not being foul play were quickly discarded. Rhade may have been Nietzschean; however, all of them had noticed that he cared for them in his own way. To Rhade, they were his family and they were well aware of it.

The only thing that would stand between a Nietzschean and his family was force.

They weren't sure if that was a good thing.

So no one on the deck was surprised when Dylan slammed his hand down and stormed out, tossing a parting comment over his shoulder that he would be in his quarters

And it was to no one's surprise that Beka followed, anger evident in every line of her posture.

"Keep searching; we're not finished. I have to go talk to our pigheaded captain for a moment. I want results when I come back, I don't care what kind."

"Aye, aye, Boss. Just try not to kill him, alright? We're already down one member; I don't think we need to lose another one." Harper watched Beka leave, shaking his head. Turning back to the screens in front of him, Harper shared a look with Rommie and Trance.

Dylan had no idea what was about to hit him. Literally.

"Dylan, we need to talk."

Groaning inwardly, Dylan turned to face his first officer.

"What can I do for you, Beka? As you can see, I have many things I need to be doing. You know, places to go, people to help-"

"A crew member to find."

The statement was delivered with a hint of confrontation; a challenge from captain to captain.

"If you have something to say, Captain Valentine, just say it. Because I don't think you're here to play word games."

"Fine." Beka stepped closer to Dylan, resting her hands on her hips. "What do you think you are doing? Get back to the command deck; we haven't finished searching this galaxy yet."

"And what's the point? He's not going to be there, he's not here. Just like all of the other places we've searched. He just…vanished into thin air." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He was unprepared for the punch that connected with his face.

Falling back, he looked up, astonished, at the enraged woman standing over him. Her voice was tight with underlying anger.

"So what, you're just going to give up? Abandon him? He needs our help, Dylan; he needs you to find him. We both know that he would have found us by now if someone-or something-wasn't stopping him. So what the hell is your problem?!"

"My problem, Beka, is that it has been three months. Three. And as you so eloquently pointed out, if he was able to find us, he would have. The fact remains that he hasn't, which leads me to the conclusion that he can't." He stepped closer to his irate first officer, his voice breaking.

"The only thing powerful enough to stop a Nietzschean, the only thing able to stop Rhade, is death."

He was again unprepared for the second punch that hit him.

"How dare you. After everything he has done for you and for us, for all of his loyalty to you and this ship, you're just going to give up on him?" She stepped back and threw her hands up in the air. "Okay. Say we do things your way. We forget about him, stop searching and move on with our lives. What will you do on that inevitable day when we do find him? Because I promise you, Captain Hunt, we will find Rhade if it's the last thing I do. So what will you say to one of the most loyal Nietzscheans I have ever seen, as to why it took so long to find him?"

Beka looked Dylan in the eyes, a flash of sorrow passing over her face.

"What will you tell the man that thinks of you like a brother? Will you tell him the truth: that his family thought he was so weak that they gave up on looking for him, or will you paint him a pretty little picture of everyone's undying faith in his survival?" She gave a scornful laugh. "If you choose option number two, don't count on me to stick around and see the fall out."

"Right now, neither he nor anybody on this ship can feel guilty for his situation, whatever it is. And when we get him back, we will give him whatever he needs. But if you give up on him, if his family gives up on him, then the only thing we can do for him is leave him wherever he is and give him a knife to end his misery."

Dylan's head jerked up as a stab of pain hit him at the thought. But Beka wasn't finished.

"We both know that whoever has him isn't going to leave him in pristine condition. Neither of us is that naïve. And I am aware that we are running out of time. But Dylan, we can't leave him; because if we do, the Rhade we get back won't be him. His blood will be on your hands; his death on your conscience."

Beka squared her shoulders and stepped back.

"I'm heading back to the deck to continue the search. Feel free to join us whenever you'd like." Spinning on her heel, the blond captain of the _Maru_ walked back the way she had come.

"Beka."

The pleading tone in his voice made her stop.

"I can't lose him. He's family…he…I need him back. I need to make things right. As captain of this ship, it is my fault, for whatever it is he's going through. I just…I've already lost so many. I can't lose any more."

"We will get him back, Dylan. You're right, he is family; he's family for all of us. You have to pull yourself together and keep searching with us. Once we find his location, we can work on bringing him back. It's the only option left. So let's go."

Dylan smiled at the determination of his first officer, knowing that if anybody was up to the task, it was her. Beka's tenacity would be just the thing to find Rhade's elusive captors. Following her back to the command deck, he spared one last thought to his missing friend.

_Hold on, you stubborn Nietzschean. We will find you and if you're not alive, I am going to kill you myself. _

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Rhade raised his eyes to the captain, exhaustion evident in every line of his face. The past few months had been too much, even for a Nietzschean. He knew it was only a matter of time before his body gave out on him, and once that happened, his mind would follow. For someone who took great care of his body in the hopes of proving his worth and superiority, to be broken like this was a blow.

Yet the words of the man in front of him hurt far more than the physical torture. Looking into his face, Rhade knew that the worst was yet to come.

Straightening up, the captain turned his back and walked a few steps towards the table against the wall.

"When I first laid eyes on you, all I saw was another arrogant, stubborn Nietzsche. Driven to excel, to pass on those perfect genes and create a family. After all, for a Nietzschean, family is all.

And then I started thinking, wondering why it was that such a perfect specimen had no family yet."

Spinning back towards Rhade, he continued.

"That's when I realized: you were special. You see, you created a family, a surrogate one, out of the crew of the Andromeda. Like all of your kind, you looked for a situation that would lead to your survival. And in them, that mixed-up group, you saw the potential. After all, who could guarantee your survival better than a man that had survived a black hole and the fall of his beautiful Commonwealth?

So you adapted. You integrated yourself onto the ship, suppressing the instincts to continue your line, opting instead to focus on your survival."

The man glided closer, his every step mesmerizing to the bound Nietzsche. His words seared his mind; a small part of him recognizing, even through his pain, how very close to the truth this man was.

"Which brings us as to why you're here. You're here because you chose this. Because every step you've taken to ensure your survival has brought you to me. And it is through me, that you are beginning to know how very far from survival you have come. Now that is true irony."

Without warning, he lashed out, grabbing a chain from the table and striking forward. Unbidden, Rhade flinched, his body preparing for the blow.

It never came.

Instead, a gurgling sound came from the soldier standing next to him, as the hooked end of the chain crushed his windpipe. With a tug from his captain, the unfortunate soldiers' throat was ripped out, splashing everyone in the surrounding area with a fine, crimson spray.

All eyes turned to the calm captain, a few of his men making aborted moves towards him.

"Now, now, boys. We are teaching him. And what's a lesson without a demonstration?"

Smirking, he sat down on the table, directing his attention back to Rhade.

"See what I did there? I killed one of my men, someone loyal and willing to grovel at my feet if need be. And I feel nothing. Because it was nothing, he was nothing. Were he in your position on someone else's ship, your captain's perhaps, do you think I would look for him? That I would willingly risk my life in an attempt to save his? If you're thinking no, you'd be right."

He studied the Nietzschean carefully.

"You think they are looking for you."

Rhade jerked his head up at the statement, ignoring the pain that raced through his body at the movement. He stared at the man before him, inwardly lamenting at how far he had fallen; that a simple human could read him so well.

Because it was true: he was waiting for them. He knew Dylan Hunt, knew what lengths he would go to in order to protect what was his.

But a small part of him, that little voice that had whispered to him over the past months, wondered if he was worth saving. If the _Andromeda_ ever showed up, would they want someone so weak back among them? And if they truly cared, where were they?

He had refused to believe the voice, writing it off as simple weakness, as the part of him wanting only survival at the cost of everyone else. He didn't want to listen to its lies; knowing that Dylan cared about him, had forgiven him for the sins of his ancestor, and to think that they wouldn't look was an insult to their character.

But the real truth was that he wouldn't be able to take it if that voice was right. It would mean that everything he had gone through had been for nothing. That his reason for breathing, for living, had all been a lie.

_For a Nietzschean, family is all._

And for Rhade, the family he had fashioned for himself, knowing the consequences, had centered around Dylan Hunt and his crew.

Dylan was a brother to him. It didn't matter that he was human, though at times he thought like a Nietzschean, or that his ancestor had once betrayed the man. He had learned to trust Dylan, rely on him; to Rhade, he was his captain, his brother, his king. And to think that the man had forgotten him hurt more than anything. It was a betrayal of his trust and, more than that, a sign of how worthless he really was.

"You know, I was wondering. Do you want them to find you? I mean, really think about it and look deep down in your soul. Do you want them to come rushing in, all white knights in shining armor, and kill us? Rescue you from our evil clutches? End your pain?"

The smile slipped from his face, all traces of humor vanishing from his voice.

"I've got news for you, Telemachus Rhade. Your pain will never end. Look at you. You Nietzscheans are gods among insects. What happens when the insects bring down the gods?" He paused, tilting his head to the side, and shrugged. "Suppose they do find you. They come aboard, kill all of us, and release you from those chains. They take you back to the _Andromeda_, clean your wounds, and patch everything up with a neat, little bow. Tell me, what happens then? You'll cry a little and they'll kiss it and make it better?

And the whispers. Oh, they won't say it to your face but, you know they'll talk about it. The big, bad Nietzschean needing his little family of humans to save him from the ship full of…well, humans."

His tormentor jumped off the table and moved towards Rhade, smirking as the bound captive involuntarily startled at the motion.

"That's the biggest rub in all of this, isn't it? You need saving from a band of pathetic humans. And you know it. It's the thought that will haunt you, day and night, whether they find you or not. You think that will be the worst part of all of this; the greatest blow to your massive ego."

The captain leaned into Rhade's face and breathed his next words, watching for his captives' reaction.

"Not even close, Nietzschean."

Suddenly, he lashed out, a glint of silver flashing as a deep river of blood began flowing down Rhade's right cheek. Rhade snapped open eyes that had unknowingly closed, his breath starting to shorten as a trickle of ice raced down his spine. Like any animal, he knew when he was being hunted. Looking into the predatory eyes of his captor, he shuddered with the realization that for the first time, he was facing a hunter greater than himself.

"You see, the thing that will haunt you, the face that appears in your nightmares, that tiny little voice whispering in your ear, will be me. Because I am truth, and the truth always hurts. How's that for irony? Ask and ye shall receive. Speak of the devil," his eyes glowed in excitement and a smile twisted his mouth as he spat out the next words.

"And I appear."

The man moved lazily, predatory, around Rhade in a small circle, his body brushing against his like a lover's caress. When he spoke again, his final message to the captive before him did exactly what he had been hoping: it destroyed the defiant hope that had lingered in Rhade.

"I will be the shadow at the foot of your bed; the nightmare that lingers on the edge of sleep, the cold chill that races down your spine.

I'll be the person always in your thoughts, the thing of which you always dream.

With me, you'll scream in shades of red and without me, you will mourn the utter emptiness of it all."

His voice carried through the silence, echoing around the chamber and reverberating in the Nietzschean before him. He did not speak in a whisper, though he did not yell his words. Instead, a level tone, neutral in emotion and void of satisfaction or anger, conveyed the tormenting words. He paused behind Rhade, and studied his back silently, a smile ringing in his eyes. Reaching out, he ran a cold finger up the blood-soaked spine, the bite of his nail curving between the whip lashes.

"For I am you, and you are me, and there is nothing in between."

Fresh blood ran down the already crimson back as his tormentor dug his fingers cruelly into the lash marks, but Rhade didn't care anymore. He had reached his limit, as he had known he would, and the last hope he held of surviving this encounter, this _torture_, fled him, so like the fluid of life that was escaping his body.

His head slumped forward and he could no longer feel the pain being inflicted upon him, his entire body going as numb as his heart. His gaze grew vacant as he drifted, not noticing or caring that the man had moved away from him; that the torture had paused and that he was alone in the chamber with only the captain of his prison.

A river of blood was flowing from a gash above his eye, the red liquid falling in a rhythmic pattern onto the tatters of his clothing. He gazed at it dazedly; mesmerized by the splatter and the patterns it formed once it landed.

This little speck of blood held more meaning than him. It contained the power of life, the taking or giving of it. Without it, a body could not sustain itself, no matter the will or the desire.

Rhade felt the breath hitch in his throat as footsteps caught his attention as they moved slowly closer. An involuntary noise, half-groan, half-whimper, was wrenched from his vocal cords and he felt black dots swim on the edge of his vision. The punishments began again and with sickening clarity, he realized that he couldn't feel or hear anything beyond the pounding of his pulse and the rapid, harsh breathing of his lungs.

He didn't want to acknowledge the emotion that froze his chest and closed his throat. His heart hammered, sweat trailed down his face and back, mixing with the blood like a painting of red and white.

_He was nothing, _he whispered in his head. _Even if they come for me, I do not want them to find me. Not after this. I am not strong enough for them. _

_I am not worthy to be called a Nietzschean. _

_I do not deserve them as my family, as mine to protect. _

_Family is all._

_And all that I am has been taken from me. I have failed._

_I cannot live with this._

With that last thought, Telemachus Rhade's psyche shattered into a thousand glittering shards.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Even though they were outnumbered, they had the element of surprise. And Rommie. And Beka Valentine, a highly pissed off female captain that Dylan had already unfortunately crossed numerous times. Yes, they definitely had the better odds of winning.

It had taken them over three months to locate the _Incendia_, the ship that held the captured Rhade, and a week to reach the ship even going as fast as possible. They had needed to be careful, though it went against every fiber of Dylan's being, but he couldn't risk them getting caught. Couldn't risk losing any more of his crew to these people. They had used the extended trip to research the crew that had taken their Nietzschean and what they had found had not been good.

Captain Vinco was not a good man. Most of what they had found out about him was whispered myths and horrors that most people scoffed at. Dylan knew better. No person could make up stories as gruesome as the ones they had heard.

From what they had gathered, he had been the captain of the _Incendia_ for about three years, and most of that time had been spent slipping in and out of various solar systems and trading with other settlements and ships. On the surface, everything appeared legit and peaceful; Vinco was a hard working man with a loyal crew that had made the best of their situation. True, some of their transactions bordered on barely legal, but in these times, nobody looked twice.

The whispers that followed his ship told differently. He was a ruthless man with no concern for the lives or safety of others. Nobody knew when he had first become a captain or worked on a ship, but they did know that the best way to stay alive was to **not** join his crew. It seemed that the good Captain had the nasty habit of using his crew to search for people that would not be missed, or those without the power or resources to search for them, and keep them on his ship. He gathered them, so to speak, as a collection of sorts with no particular similarities. His objects fit no pattern, and were seemingly chosen at random.

Dylan knew, though, that this type of man was the most dangerous. He could strike anywhere and everywhere; slip in and out leaving no trace behind. Without an archetype of his choosing, nobody would know whom he would strike against.

He was a Collector, and the crew of the _Andromeda_ had been horrified to realize that Rhade had been taken by him. These men never left their items in good shape and more often than not, they were never left alive. What Dylan and Beka had kept hidden from the others was exactly how special Vinco was.

Further digging on their part with their contacts had revealed to Beka and Dylan that their time was running out. It appeared that Captain Vinco had a special trademark in disposing of his 'toys' when he was done with them.

He burned them alive.

A trail of hollowed-hulled ships, riddled with scorch marks evident of large explosions and fire, filled with mangled corpses and skeletons followed behind Captain Vinco. When he tired of the ones that he had, he simply moved on. He didn't kill just the taken ones. No, he killed every soul on board, captive and crew alike.

Nobody knew the exact number of ships he had commanded, but they did know that he always left behind quite a body count. All of his previous Collections ended in ash-marked bones and fiery pools of blood, and all crew members of past ships were also dead. After all, dead men tell no tales.

A shiver of fear had raced down Dylan's spine when he'd realized what they were going up against, but it had vanished as he'd regained his bearings. This man had taken one of his crew and was doing horrible things to him. It didn't matter how powerful Vinco thought he was. He was in for a rude awakening when Dylan got a hold of him. He hadn't survived a black hole for over 5,000 years just to be taken down by one man and his pathetic crew.

A blast ricocheted off the paneling above his head, and Dylan ducked reflexively, just barely missing the blaze. _Okay a semi-large, well prepared, well equipped crew, _he amended in his thoughts. Shaking his head, he brought himself back to the present, pushing everything away into the back of his mind. It was too dangerous and too important of a mission for him to space out.

Glancing around, he was relieved to find that Rommie had taken out the majority of the crew and was now handling the few stragglers that remained. Beka was crouched behind a stack of crates, a control panel to her left missing its cover as she tore through the data it contained by hand. He continued to scan the room, checking for any hidden dangers and noticing the number of corridors that were attached to the main room they were stationed in. A shout of joy from Beka's direction brought his gaze solely on her, and he waited with bated breath, tension thrumming though him, for what she had discovered.

The blond captain of the _Maru_ grinned at him as she turned the screen in her hands around to face Dylan. Five blinking red dots were visible, three gathered in one room, one in a room two corridors in front of them, and one in a smaller area towards the back of the ship. Dylan felt his heart hitch as he realized that the last one could only be the object of their subject. It _had_ to be, as it was located the furthest into the bowels of the ship and far from the hangar bay or cargo areas. He knew in his heart, however, that it was Rhade. The red dot on the screen wasn't moving, and he felt a growing sense of urgency gnawing at his heart. His attention was soon focused on the last singular dot as it began moving towards the other three.

Dylan felt a thrill rush through him and a shark-like grin spread across his face as he realized exactly _who_ that last dot was. His suspicions were proven as the dot came upon the other three, and a voice directly in front of Beka, Rommie and Dylan slithered through the dimly lighted room.

"Well now, what do we have here? I really don't like intruders on my ship, you know. Now I'll have to scour it from top to bottom just to get the filth out. But what did I expect from the infamous Captain Dylan Hunt of the _Andromeda Ascendant_? Clearly, your manners are lacking. It's considered polite to announce your visits ahead of time, Captain, so we could be better prepared to greet you."

The mocking undercurrent in the voice made Dylan's blood boil and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to attack. He swallowed the anger down and spoke in a level voice, keeping all frustration out of it.

"When I'm dealing with kidnappers and murderers, Captain Vinco, I don't usually let them know when I'm coming. They have a nasty tendency to dispose of their victims when backed into a corner."

"Temper, temper, Captain Hunt. I'd be careful. Some of those so-called villains might take offense to such accusations and take it out on…certain objects. We don't want any rash accidents, now do we? So watch your tongue." Vinco lowered his voice, an ominous hiss biting through it. "Or I might have to take it from you. I've done worse things for far less."

Rommie joined the exchange, surprising both Dylan and Beka by the vehemence in her voice.

"So we've heard, Captain. We also noticed quite a few of your former Collections. At least, what's left of them. We also found out about the remains of the ships. How many lives have you destroyed with your tastes?"

The man facing them stepped forward, the overcast light illuminating his face in some parts and leaving other places dark. It was like a jigsaw puzzle; a darkened interplay of shadows and light.

"Is that supposed to frighten me? You haven't even touched upon all the things I've done. I have far more dirty little secrets than just those, my dear. Now why would I start telling them to you?" He tilted his head to the left, an appraising gaze sweeping the three. A small smile crept across his face and he spoke again, an almost lecturing tone in his voice.

"Very well. You amuse me, little one. Now pay attention. I'm certainly not going to repeat myself.

The _Incendia_ is but the latest of many, one home after another that I've cultivated and grown, created from my sweat and blood. Before her came the _Cinis Cineris_; after her, the _Levitas_. Ah, now those were some good times. When I was forced to leave her and move on, I was deeply saddened by her loss."

"Why do you burn the ships and kill everyone? Why not simply leave them somewhere and find a new place?" The disgust was evident.

"It's quite simple, actually. I do exactly that. I just leave no survivors. No one sees my face and lives. As for the ships, well, they have always been my one big problem. I can never really bring myself to completely destroy what I've made. My home, a ship of blood and bones, is a part of me. It is always so upsetting to have to abandon it." Vinco sighed, almost like he'd forgotten that he was speaking to them. "But one must do what they must. Therefore, I get rid of the ships and wait until a new one comes along. One in which I can create a new crew and make room for another Collection. They've been getting better over the years. Take my newest addition for example."

The captain lifted his eyes to Dylan, piercing him in his place.

"He looks delectable in red, you know. It's quite becoming on a Nietzschean. But do you know what looks even better? Defeat. And all I had to do to break him was throw a few cold, hard facts his way." The satisfaction was evident in every line of his body.

"What the hell have you been telling him, you monster?!" Rage rushed through Dylan as he imagined what had been said and done to his friend. For Rhade to have given up, he knew that it would have been bad. Very, very bad.

"What I tell all my pets: the truth, my dear Captain. They deserve nothing less."

A small explosion rocked the ship, and Captain Vinco took the opportunity to move towards the doorway leading to the escape vessels. Dylan wasn't going to allow him to go anywhere. With a shout, he leaped forward, intending to stop him from escaping; an extremely strong blast made the world tilt sideways and Dylan was barely able to remain standing, let alone stop Vinco. He felt his heart quicken as he realized that time was running out, for both them and Rhade. The ship was becoming unstable and he had no idea how long it was going to remain together. They needed to end this, and fast.

"And here you find yourself at a quandary. Save your crew member, or capture me? Here, I'll make it easy for you. Telemachus Rhade is practically dead. I killed him. What is the price demanded by his blood?" He smirked and took a quick step back as Beka lunged forward, arm with weapon in hand raised as her anger took over. Rommie grabbed her quickly, halting her attack. Her rushed words stopped Beka's struggles as they sunk in for both Beka and Dylan.

"Beka, stop! Rhade is still alive. I can sense his pulse; it may be faint, but it's still there. He hasn't killed him." Their attention returned back to Vinco as he chuckled in amusement.

"Yet, pretty android. I haven't killed him, **yet**. But you'd better hurry. I have no idea how much time he has left. And I'm sure you've noticed that this ship is becoming quite unstable. So what will it be, hero? Rescue Rhade, or kill me? Tick tock, Captain. Tick, tock. No worries, though. Even if you kill me, I still win. Because Rhade will never be without me." With one last smirk, he spun on his heel and dashed down the nearest corridor, using the cover of the next explosion that rocked the ship to escape. A growl of frustration left Dylan, and it was echoed by Rommie as she started to chase after the madman. Dylan stopped her however, knowing he and Beka would need her help with Rhade.

Though he too wanted to go after Vinco, the thought of Rhade quickly held him back and with a determined nod to the others, he knew what his choice was. Quickly, they picked their way down an adjacent corridor, using the screen to navigate towards the only lone dot located in the back of the ship.

All three of them were aware of time slowly running out and with hearts in their throats and softly muttered prayers; they located the chamber indicated by the panel. With one quick look at each other, Dylan gathered all courage and took the initiative, stepping forward and opening the door in front of them.

Nothing could have prepared them for the sight in front of them.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

The tangy scent of copper hung in the air; the liquid form of it covered the walls and floor, a macabre splash of red on black. What drew Dylan's eyes wasn't the blood but the source of it: a form half-sprawled in the middle of the river. It was lying on its side; arms pulled in front, the chains binding the wrists linked to a hook in the floor. Blood splattered the figure; he was covered in the sticky liquid, and Dylan couldn't determine where it was coming from.

"Rhade…" The word was drawn from Dylan's throat; a strangled whisper that was half-afraid to be right. Behind him, he could hear the soft exclamations of Beka and Rommie as their eyes focused on the torn figure. He didn't blame them.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from it.

He wanted to deny that this bloodied form was Telemachus Rhade, his close friend and crew member, his brother and his conscience rolled together in one. For a moment he could almost fool himself.

The distinctive bone blades on both forearms, however, dashed all his denials. Though bloodied and marred as they were, these were a direct mark of a Nietzschean, and Dylan could no longer lie to himself.

Another small explosion rocked the ship, tearing Dylan's attention out of its dazed state and back to the present. Knowing they needed to get out of there, for both Rhade's sake and theirs, Dylan stepped forward; taking slow, deliberate steps towards the chained Nietzschean so as not to alarm him, unconscious or not. He had already been through enough.

The captain of the _Andromeda_ knelt next to his crew member, taking in the numerous injuries that required attention. Rhade looked bad. Dylan could only imagine how he felt.

Aware that the ship they were currently on was becoming unstable, and seeing the seriousness of Rhade's injuries, Dylan ignored all the voices screaming in his head about making a wrong move. Throwing caution to the wind, he reached out and touched the still figure on the shoulder, whispering his name.

One of these days he was going to start listening to those voices.

He suddenly found himself falling backwards as one hundred percent pure Nietzschean growled threateningly from the floor. Dylan raised his arms in preparation for the attack, knowing full well that he was no match for Rhade, injured or not. With bone blades raised and rage in his eyes, the figure let out a snarl as it sprang from its now crouched position.

He never made it.

With a resounding snap of victory, the chain around Rhade's neck wrenched him back, preventing him from reaching his goal. A wounded cry not unlike an animal escaped his throat as he was unceremoniously jerked back onto the floor; the sudden impact jarring many of his injuries.

Dylan flinched at the sound, feeling his heart breaking at the state of the Nietzschean.

Anger rose in him as he considered the chains that kept his friend captive, inwardly growling at the man that dared to do this, as if Rhade was a pet to play with. Signaling to Beka, he quietly motioned for her to find something to cut the chains with. That task completed, he turned to Rommie.

A half-whine shattered the silence, causing Dylan's head to shift towards Rhade. What he saw made him want to hit something, and hit it hard.

Rhade was tugging at his chains, struggling to get the one around his neck off. His hands were prevented from reaching it and the desperation in his face increased as the chains tightened in response.

Making a quick decision, Dylan shuffled forward; the movement caught Rhade's attention, making him lose focus on getting free. Instead, his body tensed at the new threat, and warning growls leapt from his throat. Once again he attempted to attack, but the chains held fast.

Using this opportunity, Dylan spoke to Rhade, trying to calm him down.

"Rhade? It's me, Dylan. I need you to calm down, okay? We're here to help you."

A tap on Dylan's shoulder brought his attention to the tool Beka had found to cut the chains. Turning back to Rhade, he carefully brought it up and broke the chain wrapped around his throat.

Reaching slowly forward, watching the dark eyes for a hint of discomfort, he gently separated the chain from the torn flesh, wincing when bits of skin were ripped. Tossing the chain aside, he turned back to Rhade's wrists. The manacles had been wrapped around his wrists more than once, and parts of the chain were wrapped between the bone blades, putting pressure on them and forcing them apart. Blood oozed from the shredded skin; a testament as to how hard Rhade had been pulling on them.

Releasing one of the wrists, he took his eyes off of the Nietzschean for a moment, letting his guard down.

A moment was all it took.

Rhade struck out with the freed arm, the blow connecting with Dylan's face. Snarling and baring his teeth, he tugged on the remaining chain, letting out a roar of anger at its refusal to budge. When Dylan recovered his balance, any follow-up movements were stalled by the Nietzschean. He had never seen Rhade so furious.

_Then again, he had been tortured for three months. That'd make even Trance angry._

Sometimes, that sarcastic little voice in the back of his head really needed to shut up. It was entirely too distracting.

Dodging another kick aimed for his head, Dylan sighed in frustration. Rhade was injured and needed help. He didn't have time for this. Trouble was, he couldn't get close enough to calm him down, and Rhade was far beyond the point of reason. Thinking quickly, he prayed that what he was going to do next, didn't push Rhade further off the precipice.

"Lieutenant Commander Telemachus Rhade! As your Captain and commanding officer, I say stand down! That's an order!"

The resounding silence was deafening in its stillness.

Rhade had stopped his struggles the moment Dylan had raised his voice. Unfortunately for Dylan, he didn't know if it was because of the yelling, or the pulled rank. He'd worry about that later.

Taking a step forward, Dylan quickly caught Rhade as his knees buckled and guided him back to the floor. Releasing the second arm, he called his name softly, attempting to get a response.

There was nothing. As in the-lights-are-on-but-nobody's-home type of nothing. A gentle tap on the cheek elicited no response.

Staring into the dark, dead eyes, Dylan felt cold at the blankness, praying that it was merely shock setting in and not permanent catatonia.

_What if he really is gone? How can I live with my failure?_

Dylan shook his head, refusing to go down that path. They had come all this way to find Rhade. He was going to do everything in his power to ensure that he came through this. There was no other option.

Knowing they had no time to return to the _Maru_ and get a stretcher, he carefully lifted the damaged form himself, determined to carry him the short distance.

He had failed to keep his crew safe once. It wasn't happening again.

Glancing back once more at the prison that had housed his friend, Dylan felt a fissure of fear slice through him.

The sight was almost too gruesome, like a child's toy box that had been emptied in a furious rampage. He couldn't imagine the suffering that had occurred here; could almost feel the pain resonating from the walls. This place was a tomb of despair. Yet Dylan had to remind himself that Rhade had made it out of there alive and was safe and sound with them.

Looking down at the still form of his friend, remembering the blank look in his eyes, Dylan shivered.

It was a cold comfort at best.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

End Chapter 1.

AN: Okay, everyone. Just so we're on the same page (no pun intended), this is the end of the **first chapter**_**.**_ The next one will hopefully be up in no later than a month; and no worries, I've already started working on it. I'm aiming for this fic to either be 2 to 3 chapters long, though who knows where it will take me? After all, this started out as a one-shot and climbed beyond that.

The title of the next chapter is "Pessum ire of animus". The translation will be located in the next chapter if you'd like to know it.

The translation of this chapter is "Ligamen Plasmator" = "String Maker"


	2. Pessum Ire of Animus

Disclaimer: Again I own nothing except Captain Vinco, his ships and anything else you don't recognize from canon.

I would like to point out that my definition of a 'Collector' has nothing to do with the Collectors in the actual show. My 'Collectors' are meant to be what I described them as.

Authors Note: I apologize for the wait! This chapter took me a while and I ended up splitting it, taking parts and placing them in the third chapter, and generally rewriting this chapter.

I hope you will like this part and thanks for reading!

Warning: There may be mentions of torture but shouldn't be too graphic. I apologize if you find any events mentioned within to be offensive or traumatic. Hopefully, this story has been rated appropriately.

Chapter 2

"Pessum Ire of Animus"

////

_A simple square of paper can make the most beautiful pieces of art. Through a series of folds, objects appear out of the sheet. A butterfly, a heart, a crown, a box; all it takes is the patience and time to make a masterpiece. _

_Over and under. Fold up and flip. Fold down and over. Make a crease. Tuck a point in a small, hidden flap, out of sight. Take four pieces of the same series of folds, fit them together and connect. _

_But one mistake, one misplaced fold, one single flap in the wrong direction, and the entire piece falls apart. _

Captain Vinco stared down at the small box sitting in his lap, studying the crisp folds and the intricate way the pieces fit together.

It was an old abandoned art, a forgotten art, from a culture or race that died long ago. In the grand scheme of things, the act of folding paper and fitting together the pieces meant nothing for their survival or health. A quickly unraveling galaxy had no need for such a beautiful, frivolous art; a paper animal or box did not feed a family, or fuel a ship. And so it had faded, like so many other things and like the people who had created it, and became a rare talent long erased with time.

He had found the box on a former ship, in the quarters of the previous captain, and had been drawn to its simplistic elegance. Something about it called to him, like the siren scream of danger and innocence of navigating through slipstream or the sweet splash of blood on his clothes as he tamed another toy. It had been the presence of the box that had clinched his decision to take the ship for his own. The _Levitas_ had been a beautiful ship all her own, sleek metal and gleaming bolts, with two large holding areas filled with rows after rows of cells. She had been a prison transport ship and one of the best choices for a new home that he'd made in a while. Only about ten guards had been present in comparison to the almost forty-no, make that forty-seven- prisoners held captive. They had been rather useful; though not his first choice of shipmates, they were eager to be free and freedom was what he promised them. And he had delivered, in return for one thing: so long as they did what he asked with no questions or hesitation, they could remain on the ship until he was through with them.

Nobody had picked up on the "until he was through with them" part.

He hadn't been surprised, though. Not many picked up on that little…detail of his arrangements he made with the crew. It was disappointing however; if just one of them had been able to decipher the hidden game behind it all, they just might have been useful enough to keep. But it was not much better than he had expected; it was, after all, rather difficult to find someone that was on his level of intelligence and ruthlessness, as well as having his same tastes. Almost seven different ships he had commanded and out of all those crews, none had been worthy enough. Too many of them grew consciences or got greedy and as far as he was concerned, such sins warranted punishment. So punish them he did, both crew and toys, because no one lived under him that dared question his choices.

Every man has his secrets and though many would not consider him a man because of his tastes, he did have them, the kind of secrets that nightmares are made of. But they didn't haunt them nor did they give him nightmares. No, his secrets were savored, kept away in his own places and taken out when he wanted something to play with.

Just like the box he held in his possession.

He stared at it thoughtfully, running a finger lightly over the delicate frame, before opening it, setting the lid aside carefully. He looked at its' contents, a chilling smile slowly slipping across his face, before reaching in and removing several objects. Laying them gently on the top of a nearby desk, he set the box down and rearranged them into a neat row, four in all. Sitting back, he glanced over them and, satisfied at their order, he reached out and touched the first one, feeling the silky texture of the piece.

The objects were locks of hair.

Each was special in its own way, linked to a different memory and belonging to a specific person. They were his treasures, his mementos, and no one knew of their existence except him. Every one of them had a story and he had never forgotten them.

The first one was the oldest, the only piece that he had left of his younger sister. Raising the red-stained yellow lock up, the smell of vanilla and raspberries filled the air, and he smiled at the memories they raised. She'd been a smiling, exuberant child, with a love of the outdoors and she had spent hours out in the fields near their house, returning with handfuls of wildflowers. But her carefree nature had gotten her in trouble, and they had found her body at the bottom of a ravine; a tragic accident that had stolen her life before she could live it, they said.

Nobody had known that he'd been the one to give her a little push.

He tilted his head back, remembering the small scream she had barely been able to utter before she hit the ground. He'd been almost disappointed at how quick she had died, but the image of her long, blonde hair strewn around her had struck him. The petals of gold floating in the pool of blood had been beautiful, and he had been unable to resist climbing down and taking one. It had been the beginning of this own, private collection.

The next two pieces held similar stories to each other; both had belonged to a particular toy in a particular Collection. Their owners had been the strongest he'd seen each time, lasting far longer than the others of their group. They'd been defiant, disobedient and been the sweetest to break. But break they did, into a shattered mirror of broken shards.

He'd taken a lock of their hair, one a dirty blonde, the other a dark brown, and placed it with the first in a different box; that one had been broken in an escape several months after. He had been forced to keep them in a different one, until he had come across the folded one on the _Levitas_; he'd known right away it was perfect for his souvenirs. But compared to the remaining lock of hair in the collection, these pieces, even his sisters', couldn't hold a candle to the effort that had gone into obtaining it. It was by far his favorite of the four.

Returning the three to their original positions in the box, he picked up the last one reverently, feeling a sense of delight and satisfaction as he thought on this one. The shortness of the ebony lock indicated that the owner had been a man, but not just any man. In fact, it had belonged not to a man, but a Nietzschean.

A smirk bloomed across his lips at the memories of this locks' owner. This one had lasted longer than any other because it hadn't broken until the very end. The smirk left as he mused on that last thought; the end hadn't been death like all his others, but rescue, and the thought made rage rise in his blood. He forced himself to put the lock of hair back into the box and secured it in a drawer of the desk before he did something he would regret.

He took a sip from the glass he held in his other hand, tasting the merlot on his tongue before swallowing, and set the glass down on the desk, sighing as he lamented the loss of his favorite drink. He'd had almost four cases of the delicious alcohol, bought off of a trader about a month ago, and he was not pleased at having lost all but one case. With a sneer that twisted his face in anger and hatred, he slammed his fist down, relishing the resonating sound the impact made as it echoed around the room. It hadn't been by choice that he had abandoned the cases. No, someone else had been the source of his misfortune: a man named Dylan Hunt.

Captain Dylan Hunt was a highly-irritating, interfering, nuisance of a person, Vinco declared to himself. It was because of him that the captain had lost his newest ship, the _Incendia_, his seething fire of destruction and might, and Vinco was far from pleased. In the process, he had managed to beat Vinco at his own game, destroyed his ship, killed his already dead-men-walking crew, and acted as if he had the right to do it all in the first place.

He didn't want to admit to himself his greatest problem with Hunt. He didn't want to give the man the pleasure, even if he wasn't able to hear his defeat. He clenched his hand tight, feeling a growl rising in his throat, as the truth flashed through his mind.

Dylan Hunt had taken one of his toys back.

It would have been bad if he had simply been stuck with no crew, no ship, and worst of all, without his cases of merlot. But it hadn't stopped there, and the very thought made his vision turn red, because he'd lost his Collection. It'd happened before, though usually by his own hand, but this one had been special. The Nietzschean had been special. It had taken a lot of time and effort on his part, but he had succeeded in capturing him, and he held the black lock of hair to prove it.

Not the first Nietzschean Vinco had taken, Telemachus Rhade had been an entirely new breed of animal. Headstrong, stubborn and arrogant to a fault, Rhade had both amused and intrigued the Captain of the _Incendia_. But he'd had difficult ones before and he was confident in his ability to break the newest of his shiny toys. And he had, although it had taken three months, but he'd lost what he had gained almost as soon as he'd gotten it, overshadowing it all. His friends had come for his newest pet, led by that infuriating pest of a man, and had actually been able to take him back. And though he knew that he'd won, leaving the Nietzschean a shattered shell that would be nearly impossible to fix, the victory had been costly.

Vinco threw the glass against the nearest wall, not even flinching as several shards hit him, one slicing a cut near his eye that began to bleed. He simply sat there, staring at the pooling puddle of wine near the wall, and began to plan his revenge.

Hunt was going to die. In a slow, painful, stretched-out-as-long-as-possible way. The fool had thought he could get away with it. He'd underestimated Captain Vinco, and that had been his first mistake. The second had been taking his ship. The third had been destroying his precious cases of wine. And the fourth? The fourth was the mistake that had secured Hunt's death sentence.

Nobody took what was his.

_Nobody._

_////_

The world was spinning.

In a whirlwind of colors, it turned around a solitary figure, standing in the middle of a plain. Above him, the sky is a multitude of fire, reds and oranges and yellows blending and mixing, like a supernova blazing at its' brightest intensity.

It is the quiet around him that catches his attention and turns his head, eyes seeking to find something-someone-in order to be not alone. But there is no one there that he can find, no comforting arms or faces he knows; only the silence, a stillness in this world that allows for nothing else. But there is also a danger that lurks around him, clouding the aura of his vision. He knows not what is here or there; senses only that a change is coming and doesn't know when it will hit.

The world around him is shifting.

Like a ship hurtling through a great deal of space, it overloads his senses, the sudden influx thrumming through his head, a thousand voices screaming in agony. Where once there had been only quiet, now contained every sound he'd ever heard, crammed together in the single space of his head and vying to dominate each other. It is a cacophony of static, a symphony of screams, and the only thing left to do is surrender. So he did. Leaning over, he clamps his arms around his head and screams with the noise, but cannot tell if it is out loud or simply joining the rest of it in his head.

The world went quiet.

He held himself still, barely breathing, unmoving, too afraid of what he'd see if he opened his eyes, and too confused about what was happening. Holding his breath, he waited, waited, waited for something to change. Moments passed, and still he stayed, silent and fearful.

He didn't know how much time had passed. It could have been years, days, seconds, hours-it didn't matter. The silence and stillness around him continued, and he remained quiet, feeling a presence that sent chills down his spine, and hoped that he would just be left alone. He couldn't explain, and didn't want to think, about the reason he wanted the presence to leave, or why the thought of another person being that close to him felt wrong.

He felt himself start with surprise and terror as the air around him was shattered by the sound of another's voice.

"How long are you planning on standing there?"

He spun towards the voice, and took a step back in surprise at what he saw. A child stood before him, maybe six or seven years old, clothed in a pale blue dress with matching shoes. She watched him for a brief moment, smiled, and with a clap of her hands, the landscape around them changed from the solid black to a bare plain. It looked similar to most of the inhabited planets he had visited, except for one thing.

The colors were all wrong.

The ground was a vibrant blue, with small patches of yellow. There were no rocks or trees, valleys or mountains. The sky was an ominous mix of purple and red, darkened in areas by black. The air was light, almost too light, and like before, there were no sounds. No animals or other people were in sight, except for the child and himself.

"Are you waiting for something? Maybe, someone?"

He didn't answer, too frozen with fear and confusion. Something was wrong here, he thought, and every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run.

The child stepped forward, curly brown ringlets brushing over her shoulders, swinging in a non-existent breeze. An innocent giggle escaped her, her small frame shaking with glee and humor.

"I think you are. But for whom?"

With a small skip, she sat down on the ground in front of him, golden eyes gleaming with laughter and secrets.

"Ah. There we go." She leaned closer, her words a whisper in the beckoning silence. "I know who you are waiting for. That's not the question, though, is it? The question is, do you?"

He finally managed to find his voice, some sudden urge compelling him to answer the strange child.

"Do I what?"

"We all have questions. Some are about small or little things. And some are bigger, different. Those questions all have meaning. But they have a problem, those types."

_What?_ The single word echoed around his mind, but he crushed the urge to say it out loud, feeling that although he might not want to know her reply, he was going to hear it anyway.

"The problem isn't whether we know the answer. It's whether or not we know why we asked the question in the first place." She tilted her head sideways, the suddenly serious eyes boring holes through his skull, asking silent questions of her own. "If I ask you a question, will you give me an answer or will you give me another question?"

"What are you- I don't understand. I don't know what you're talking about." He stepped backwards, overwhelmed and completely unnerved by the entire situation.

"See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" With an expression he would almost call pouting, she continued speaking. "You adults are so difficult at times, but you are often right, though. The truth really does set you free." She looked up at him.

"Don't you feel even a little bit better? You can tell me, you know. It'll be our very own secret. If you're worried that I might tell someone, don't be. Look around. Who else am I going to tell?"

She watched him closely, almost as if she was waiting for an answer. When he said nothing, disappointment flashed across her face, followed by a rueful smile; she looked at him like she had expected nothing different but had been hoping for something better. He could only describe the feeling he felt as shame, like a son that had been scolded by his mother for getting his clean clothes dirty. But she was younger than him, far younger and the expression was beyond her years. Yet why did he feel like he was standing in the presence of a being older than him, than his life, than the universe and time itself?

_**I am, you know.**_

He eyes flashed up to meet hers, a question in his depths, but somehow, he already knew the answer. With a slowly growing mixture of horror, awe and fear, he felt his world spin as he realized that she was speaking, _without her lips moving_. He focused his attention back on her words, as she continued, hoping that he would be able to make sense of the situation. He had a feeling that this situation, whatever it was, was definitely out of his ability to comprehend.

_**Older than time itself. As well as the universe, fate, this world, the next and every single one in between, the galaxies, the suns. Pick one, and I am older, if not in years, but wisdom. You humans often say that with experience, grows wisdom and knowledge. Just because I may not be human doesn't mean that I, too, cannot follow your rules. **_

"What are you? How- Who- Why are you doing this? What exactly are you doing?" He honestly didn't know which question to ask first, or if the stream of ones he had rattled off even made sense. He was surprised when she threw back her head, laughing loudly, and clapped her hands together in amusement.

_**Well, that just leaves when and where, doesn't it? And for your information, little one, I said 'may not be human'. I never said I 'was not human'. **_

Before he could move, the child stood up and stepped forwards. Without warning, she grew in height and her body began to age right before his eyes. The long brown ringlets shortened, and gold spread from the roots down to the tips as the hair straightened. The yellow eyes that were wide with both age and innocence, slanted and faded to a teal mix of green and blue. With a smirk, the now-older woman looked down as the baby blue dress and shoes shifted into tight-fitting black leather pants and tank. He frowned as he looked at her, unease growing within him as her new appearance struck a familiar chord. He wondered if he knew her, or at least, the way she looked now, because it felt like he did.

_**Isn't that neat? I always like doing that. **_

His eyes widened with shock and he stumbled backwards, recognizing the new tones to her voice. Flashes of images raced through his head, a jumble of noise and pictures that was impossible to separate. One name stood out amidst the mess and he breathed it out, forcing the words through suddenly numb lips.

"Beka Valentine."

With a slight toss of her head, the woman-Beka-whoever-whatever she was smirked as he looked her up and down, enjoying his shock and surprise.

Shaking his head, he felt his mind racing as he tried to understand what was happening. He recognized her now, but also knew that it was impossible for her to be here. Wherever 'here' was exactly, well, he didn't know that either. But none of it made sense.

"This is a dream. I am dreaming, and you aren't here and I'm not here and this isn't real. It can't be."

_**Dreams are nothing but the shades and feelings that the mind keeps hidden from you when awake. What you see and feel here is just as real as reality can be. Besides, you don't need to understand here to be here.**_

"You-what-No. I-." He felt frustration rise up in him at his inability to form even _words_ and he really wished that she would stop talking in circles and, even more, stop doing it _in his head._

The not-Beka took pity on him, seeing his confusion and fear. This time when she answered him it was out loud, her voice echoing both in his head and in the space around him.

"_**Wow, you really are incapable of forming a complete sentence, aren't you? Pity, but I assume you make up for it with your good looks. You aren't looking too good right now, though. Are you?" **_

He glanced down at himself and froze as he saw a flash of a white outfit hovering over his other clothes, spots of red staining the fabric. His arms had strips of red-purple bruises and he winced as he felt his shoulders straining as he let his arms down to dangle at his sides. Blood dripped down the side of his face and his head pounded in sympathy. He felt sore and tired and for some reason, he really _hurt_. Yet he couldn't seem to remember why-or how- he felt that way; he shook his head and looked down again, feeling confusion and a sudden chill creep up his spine, as the white clothes and the bruises and the pain disappeared.

"_**They aren't real here because you haven't made them real. You know that they are there but you refuse to show them. Why?"**_

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question? You seem to know more about what is going on here than I do."

She nodded her head, yellow hair shifting back and forth with the movement.

"_**I do. But it isn't for me to tell you. You already know the answer. All you have to do now is accept it. Once you do that, everything will become real. And don't ask me to do it for you. It isn't my place, nor is it my wish, to do so." **_

At her words, he was unable to stop himself.

"Then why can't you just help me or just do it yourself? I don't even understand what you are saying! You keep talking in riddles and aren't giving me a straight answer! Well, maybe I don't want to keep playing around with you."

With that, he spun on his heel and stalked away, not even knowing where he was going. But he didn't care because he was tired of this. Tired of this not-Beka with her cryptic words and puzzle pieces, tired of not knowing where he was, tired of the flashes of images on the edge of his vision just out of reach, and tired of trying to understand it all. Most of all, and he could barely admit it to himself, he was _afraid_. He was afraid of uncovering what it all meant because some part of him knew that he couldn't remember it for a reason. And if that were the case, he wasn't too sure that he wanted to.

"_**And what exactly made you think that I was done with you?"**_

Abruptly, he stopped in his tracks as the woman appeared in front of him. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, wondering if walking away from this _being_ had really been the best idea. The look on her face was terrifying and her entire frame screamed anger and fury and retribution. She looked every inch of the all-powerful, all-knowing creature she had hinted to be and briefly, he wondered if she was going to eat him alive.

"_**Stop whining, you insolent child! I am not here to play games. I am here because you brought me here, because you needed guidance or help or even something else." **_Her eyes softened in sympathy, though her voice remained hard.

"_**I understand that this is confusing. But you have to realize that I can't do everything for you. Some of these things you have to figure out on your own."**_

Shaken, he found his voice, feeling slightly bolder as she looked at him encouragingly.

"You're not really here then, is that it? You're just a guide, something to help me find what it is I am looking for. Is that why you took that specific form? Because she is someone I know?"

She smiled slightly, and nodded her head; her next words strengthened his courage.

"_**Not just someone you know, but someone that you trust, to help you and not hurt you. For whatever reason, you felt safe with her and that is why I took her form at the moment that you needed it. She means something, whether it is friendship or love or simple trust. You knew that her being here, even if I am not truly her, was exactly what you needed for this single moment in time."**_

And he knew immediately that he had been right: he wasn't going to like what he remembered.

But he also knew that he had no choice. Too many questions were floating in his head and apparently, he was the one who had the answers, therefore making him the one person who had to uncover them. Now, the only thing left to do was remember.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind clear except for one thing only. He focused on the picture of the white clothes he had seen, the bandages, the red and purple bruises, and _his throat suddenly felt tight_ on the blood. He ignored the woman he knew was somewhere in front of him and used the echoing silence all around to keep himself calm and focused. The image was burned into his retinas and so he focused on it, willing it to appear again. And though it did, and he'd braced himself for it, he was still caught off guard by it. With a deafening howl, he fell to his knees as the colors and sounds flooded his brain, overloading all of his senses. The sheer intensity of the emotions, the feelings, the sights and smells, the very _memories_ was overpowering and it was all he could do to simply hold on and not get swept up in their wake. Everything around him, the not-Beka, the scenery, and the silence all faded, to be replaced by the smell of blood, the sight of dark walls and sneering men, the sound of rattling chains, and the words of an evil so encompassing it choked him with its power.

"_For I am you and you are me, and there is nothing in between."_

With a startled gasp, he jerked his head up and stepped back, eyes flying open in shock. His body trembled in fear and agitation, the memories as fresh as if they had occurred yesterday. And that was the hardest part, because they _could_ have happened yesterday, today, three days ago, or a month, and he didn't even know. How long had it been? How long had he been sleeping? Because he knew now that he was asleep, and it was possible-no, probable-that this, all of this, was some kind of dream; what he wanted was to know why. Why was he dreaming of _this_? Why was he dreaming to begin with? Even more puzzling, and slightly frightening, how long had he been dreaming, because it was all he could remember after-how long had it been? _Three months of torture_, his mind helpfully supplied, and he shuddered as the memories shifted to the front of his mind.

_It was hard to breathe_, he suddenly noticed and he tried to think as his chest grew tight. His lungs began to heave and his hand flew up, hovering near his throat as he desperately tried to suck in oxygen. His head began to ache and his vision grew cloudy. Dimly, he could hear someone speaking, the words muffled by the roaring in his ears.

"_**Breathe, you idiot! Listen to me, you need to breathe! Stop holding your breath, damn it, that's the LAST thing you need to be doing! Stupid-you'd think you've never breathed before! Breathe!" **_

It was the slap that did it. The sensation of palm hitting skin seemed to echo in the empty expanse and the sound cut through the panic clouding his vision. Slowly, he inhaled and felt his muscles relax as the oxygen flooded his system. The tight vise around his lungs eased and his senses returned to him; he nodded his head in reply to the hovering not-Beka's concern that _yes, he was breathing. _He kept his eyes closed and focused on the simple act of inhale, exhale, inhale, and exhale.

"_**Good, that's good. You're breathing now, at least. That's something." **_

There was a pause, and the voice reached out tentatively.

"_**Are you okay? I mean, well, are you-did I hurt you?" **_

And he almost laughs as he realizes that he hadn't even registered the pain of the slap, as it was nothing compared to what he had ever felt before. He felt disconnected, almost like he was floating, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It was absurd, really; he was talking to a person that actually existed in a place other than his mind, _in _his mind, and she-it-whatever was concerned about hurting him? How could a person that wasn't actually there hurt him? _He needed time_, he thought, _needed to sort out everything that had happened, and wanted to be left alone to do so._

"_**Leave you alone? With God, or with your demons?"**_

He was _really_ getting sick of this thing reading his mind, and no, he didn't care if it heard that thought. He was done with it, done with it all. He was tired of the mind games, tired of the riddles, tired of not understanding and not wanting to in the first place. He had done what it wanted; he'd remembered what had landed him here, even if he didn't know exactly where he was, and he just wanted to _sleep_.

"'_**To die-To sleep- perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come.' A wise man said that once, Shakespeare, I believe; one of many writers from the planet Earth. He existed a very long time ago. You should read his work."**_

He kept his eyes closed tight, breathing deeply, as he fought the anger that was rising in him. He should have known better than to think that this was over, that this woman or _thing_ would finally leave him in peace. Of course she couldn't, she had to continue spewing meaningless phrases and empty words and keep leading him in circles like a pet on a leash. He was nobody's pet, nobody's toy and damn if he would let her keep playing with him. He was jerked out of his thoughts at her next words, the condescending tone of her voice raising his ire and he could swear that he saw red across his vision.

"_**Come now, love. Do you really think you know who you are? If that is true, then why are you still here? Are you enjoying my company that much? I thought you said that you were nobody's pet."**_

Suddenly she was directly in front of him, so close he could almost taste her perfume. Her breath ghosted across his skin, leaving goose bumps across the surface, and he swallowed hard as her eyes glowed yellow with malice.

"_**And yet here you are, jumping when I say to and rolling over when I ask. Maybe that is who you really are, nothing more than a pet on a leash to his master. Did the thought cross your mind? Perhaps that's the real truth. You don't know who you are because who you are is something you can't stand. Maybe that's why I won't leave. Because you won't let me."**_

He stepped backwards, feeling the pain at those words, because he knew some of it was true. He may have remembered what had brought him here, but the memories were destroying him. That was why he was here; and ignoring them was only hurting him. But he didn't want to think on them because they _hurt_ and he was too broken to deal with that pain. He refused to deal with it right now because while she may have been right, he was right also; he would completely and utterly _shatter_ if he faced them all now. Not yet.

There was something he could do, however, because she was also right about this: he didn't know who he was. He couldn't even face his own name at the moment. So he closed his eyes and breathed in and thought back to the times before the pain, before the torture. He rewound his mental clock back before those three months and let the memories wash over him, ignoring the details and instead focusing on the importance of them all.

He opened his eyes and found that he was looking straight into the air above him. He gazed ahead and noticed something that he hadn't noticed before: the sky was clear. Oh, it was still the purple-red mix of a bruise oozing blood, but it was _clear._ No clouds, no shadows, no dark spots, nothing. The sky was clear.

Everything was clear.

He was Telemachus Rhade, a proud and stubborn Nietzschean that lived on the battleship _Andromeda_. He was Telemachus Rhade, and currently, he was standing in the middle of a yellow and blue field, under a purple and red sky with a blonde woman in black leather. He was Telemachus Rhade and he was dreaming of people he knew, talking to them on a non-existent world, and he was _really_ starting to wonder about his sanity.

He was Rhade, and the woman somewhere in front of him was-actually, he still didn't know _what _she was, but he did know what she wasn't. She was not-Beka, and he was Rhade but not-Rhade and the world wasn't making any sense.

But somehow, it really didn't surprise him.

And he was even less surprised when a deep, male voice spoke from behind him, knowing even before he turned around that the being that had looked like Beka wasn't going to look like her anymore.

He was right.

The person standing in front of him was yet another recognizable face, this time a male figure, dressed in a familiar outfit of blue, black and silver, a weapon at his hip, and shaggy brown hair. Dylan Hunt was a face he would recognize no matter what, as his captain, comrade, brother and friend. As Rhade looked at him, however, he noticed one thing different about this Dylan.

It was in the way he stood and etched into every line of his face. This Dylan was the more serious, sorrowful version that Rhade had only seen a few times. He kept this face hidden from the others, displaying it only when he was alone for fear of being seen as weak. This was the Dylan from the time 300 years past that missed his family and friends, that cared for his new crew members and family, and the one that blamed himself when things went wrong for any of them. He was the one that woke up sometimes wondering why he continued living without the ones he loved and wondered if it was worth it to continue on at all. Rhade had only gotten glimpses of this Dylan in recent moments, and each time Dylan had quickly hidden such emotions away under his cool mask. Never had he been as open as he was now, as he stared at Rhade in a sad, almost painful way.

Rhade shifted at his stare, feeling uncomfortable in this Dylan's presence. He felt wide open and raw, as if every thought and feeling was on display for him to see, and it made chills race down his spine. His breathing hitched in his throat as he thought back to the last time he had felt this exposed, when the man who had been in charge of his torture had studied him like an experiment. He was brought out of his thoughts as this not-Dylan finally spoke, breaking the heavy silence with his even tone.

"_**If this form is making you uncomfortable, I can choose a different one."**_

Rhade was surprised at the pang that went through him at those words. The truth was, he felt somewhat safer with this Dylan, as if his mere presence alone was enough to protect him. _From what, _his mind whispered, _the skeletons in your closet or the demons of your past?_ He shook his head forcefully, trying to clear his thoughts and focus back on the present, when Dylan spoke again, obviously taking the shake as a negative reply.

"_**Good. That's good. For a moment there, I thought I had read you wrong. That would've been disastrous. I'm not here to hurt you, Rhade, intentionally or otherwise. I need you to understand that. It's important."**_

At this, Rhade felt compelled to say something, not even sure of what he was asking.

"I understand. But what difference does it make? Even if you could hurt me, I can't really stop you."

Dylan gazed at him with knowing eyes, filled with familiar pain and sadness.

"_**Haven't you been hurt enough?"**_

Why was everyone insisting that they could hurt him? They were figments of his mind, they _could not _hurt him! Rhade couldn't understand why they were doing this. First it was Beka, telling him she was there to help but then threatening him at random moments; now it was Dylan, swearing from the beginning that he didn't want to hurt him.

Maybe this was it. He'd finally lost every shred of sanity and common sense he'd ever had. Perhaps this was his mind's way of letting him say good-bye to the people he cared about; that he was dying or dead or going to remain completely insane for the rest of his life. And a part of him wondered, did he really care?

"_**Calm down. Please. It's not as bad as that. Let me explain a few things, alright? I apologize for confusing you so much before and for letting you get this upset."**_

Rhade stared at him incredulously. Upset? This was definitely _not _him upset.

"_**Alright, you're not upset. My apologies. You are simply confused. The reason I wasn't truly explaining what is happening is simple: I couldn't. You weren't prepared for those answers. You weren't ready to hear what you are doing here." **_

"And now I am? What exactly has changed in the past few moments that made me ready to hear whatever it is you're going to tell me?" Rhade couldn't believe what he was saying.

"_**Yes, now you are ready. Here's the deal: We are in your mind where you are, essentially, talking to yourself, trying to sort through everything that has happened. Your body is in a state of resting and because of it, your mind needed someplace to go. After the torture that you went through, your mind simply couldn't handle more stress, especially the stress of dealing with what happened. In a way, it simply broke, cracking under the pressure. What is the last thing you remember before you woke up here?"**_

Rhade swallowed hard as feelings of blood and pain flashed through his mind, and he couldn't speak. Dylan didn't need him, however; he could clearly see his struggle and gently, he continued on.

"_**They did find you, you know. Shortly after you blacked out, they found the ship, came aboard and brought you home. You're safe now."**_

He raised his eyes towards this open version of Dylan, feeling like a child seeking comfort from a parent as he spoke.

"Then it's over? I'm fi- I'm going to be okay. Right?"

"_**And there lies the real question. You'll be okay-physically at least- but the rest, well, that is entirely up to you. Do you want to be okay? Because if you do, then there's hope." **_He looked at him with old eyes, and Rhade knew that what was said next would make or break him. _**"But the fact that you are even here in the first place implies that you don't really know if you want to live or die. And ultimately, the choice is yours and yours alone."**_

And he was right. Because as much as he wanted Dylan to tell him what to do, he knew deep down that he couldn't.

Then it hit him: this was why he was here. This was why he was talking to really fucked up versions of his friends, why they kept changing forms, and why he hadn't been able to understand anything until he remembered.

Because he didn't know anything more than they did. They were a part of him and therefore, he knew what they knew, nothing more or less. And because he didn't know what to do, neither did they; they couldn't tell him whether to choose life or death because he didn't want to make that choice. Deep down, he couldn't decide which one to pick.

He had two choices: to wake up, or to stay here.

Here he would be with his friends, in a world of his choosing. He could be what he wanted, live as he wanted and make his friends be anything he wanted. But it wouldn't be real.

There, however, he would have to face what had happened to him. The pain and the fear and the agony would be waiting for him and he didn't think he had the strength to face it. And unlike here, he knew that his state of mind wouldn't be as clear, because that was the reason he had found refuge here. How did the not-Beka put it?

"_**Dreams are the shades and feelings that are kept hidden from the mind when it is awake. That's what she said."**_

The not-Dylan chuckled lightly, a slight smile on his face.

"_**I say that dreams are the tools that help us decide between the possible and impossible, between the hidden truth and the lies that cover it. The shadows of your dreams tell you more than you think. But what do I know? I'm just a figment of your imagination."**_

His face grew serious and his words held a sense of urgency.

"_**Now you need to make a choice. Don't think about the what-ifs or the ups and downs of either. Look inside your heart, listen to your instincts and choose. Deal with the consequences afterwards."**_

And Rhade did.

///

There was a bright light against his eyes. It seemed comforting, soothing; the white of it was calming in its simplicity. There was no thought to it, no feelings that tainted it. It was there with no action and nothing cut through it. He felt like he was floating in it, washed away by its calmness and drowning in its serenity…

It burned! It hurt, it blazed, scratching and clawing at his eyes. He could feel the blood pouring between his fingers, the thick crimson fluid dripping onto his face and chest, his hands and his arms. He couldn't understand what was happening, why the light that had been so restful before was now attacking him, hurting him. What had he done to make it so angry? Had it been resentful of the peace and security he sought in its glow?

He could vaguely hear other noises penetrating the haze that surrounded him and he fought with all he had left to escape again. Though the light had turned against him, he reached for it, wanting the calm feelings to return. He could ignore the pain, accept it and allow it, for it was all he had known for so long. But the emptiness? He couldn't accept that. For a brief moment, he had felt safe and he wanted that again.

So he fought. Again and again, fury and panic coursing through him, he struck out, uncaring as to what fell victim to his blows. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw shadows, a seething, writhing mass that hissed their taunts and he felt his blood boil as he imagined what they said. How their whispered screams mocked his existence and shredded state of mind!

Part of him wanted to hide from them, from the truths they spat in his face. Another part wanted to tear them apart, rip them to pieces; make them feel the pain he was hiding behind.

But their shrieks and their cries overwhelmed him, and all he could do was absorb what they said, feeling the little bit of himself that was left crumbling and falling to shreds.

_Worthless, _they yelled, the loathing in the single word reverberating around him, echoing off of the walls and the ceiling.

_Disgusting, _they hissed, the syllables rolling off their tongues and mixing with each other, a high-pitched cry of truth and consequence.

_Weak, _they whispered, a sympathetic rumble of fact and fiction, love and hate, and a blend of reality and fantasy. They spoke the words because they could, and meant the words because they believed.

Together, the voices melded into one, surrounding the air around him with the thickening smell of hate and truth.

He felt himself slowly slipping again, as he struggled to escape from them. The sound was overwhelming, and it seemed impossible and never ending. He wanted it to stop, wanted all the noise and the pain and the screams and the blood to just _stop._ There was nothing he could do about it, no way for him to take back control and so he didn't even try. But he couldn't stop from lashing out with his arms and fists in defense, some irrational part of him thinking that it would work. He let out a hiss of surprise and fury as he felt something solid finally catch hold of his flailing limbs, and he knew with sinking dread that he was going to lose the fight.

Whatever had hold of him was strong, and he yanked furiously at the confinement, desperately hoping he could free himself. But it didn't budge; instead, it simply grew even tighter and he howled in agony.

"Rhade! Stop! Damn it, Rhade! Snap out of it!"

Abruptly, he stopped fighting, letting his body go loose, exhaustion and weakness overcoming him. Darkness danced on the edge of his vision and he welcomed it, knowing that it brought something a thousand times better than what faced him here. In the dark, he could sleep, and maybe even dream, and he could forget what existed in the here and now. And he could ignore the pain and the terror and the shame, all of it unexplainable yet unbearable, and maybe, just maybe, he could be safe. As he lay there, he realized that the hissing and the taunts that he had been hearing had disappeared and felt his face crease in confusion. Gradually, other sounds began to filter into his hearing and he tried to focus on them, hoping to make sense of this new development. He felt like he was drowning, so he closed his eyes and tried to block it out, but it was too difficult and the sounds-were they words?- began to become more than just a jumble of noise.

"-ade? Rhade, it's me. It's Dylan. Can you hear me? Rhade? Rhade."

_Rhade. Rha-de. De. Rha. R-ha-de. R-_. He cut himself off with a bark of laughter, chuckling to himself, wondering at what he was doing and wanting to continue anyway. It was simple, it was fun and it allowed himself to _not_ think. _Rhade. Such a strange word. What did it mean? Why was it being said to him?_ He was distracted as a new voice joined the first. This one was softer, mellower, and the higher pitch to the tones indicated that it belonged to a female.

"Rhade? I need you to focus for me, Rhade. Can you understand me?"

Rolling his head to the side, he glanced dazedly around, wondering what had happened. The arms were gone, no longer restraining him, but dark shapes stood around him, practically in a circle, and he felt his body stiffen in response. A low growl rumbled from his throat and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, an instinctive urge to fight and protect himself rising to the surface. His breathing picked up and grew shallow, causing the machines next to the bed to shriek, startling him with its intensity. With a noise that was half-growl, half-snarl, he threw himself upwards, tumbling over the side of the bed and landing on the ground with a harsh thud. Wires ripped from his flesh, causing a small splatter of blood to hit both the floor around him and himself, the red dots staining the white clothing. The shrieking grew louder, harsher in its tone and he flinched, feeling his thoughts begin to spiral. It was too familiar, too threatening and he let out another howl as the memories flashed through him mind. The white and dark colors of the room around him faded, swept away by the tidal wave flooding over him.

_A whip cracked through the air, the leather snapping and snarling as it landed on torn flesh, thin stripes lacing the body it was aimed at. Copper swelled in his mouth, the thick liquid choking and stealing his breath; it dripped from his lips and hit the floor in rhythmic patterns, the sound loud to his ears. He clenched his teeth and bore his pain in silence, unwilling to let them see the agony they dealt him. They didn't deserve it and he wouldn't let them hear or see any weakness. The force of the next blow rocked his body forward, pulling him away from the tightly wound chains, and he growled in his head, wishing he was free to exact his own vengeance. These humans thought they could break him; he'd be damned if he showed them anything other than anger. And he distracted himself with his thirst for revenge, knowing that sooner or later, despite his best efforts, it would be too much and he __**would**__ break. But not yet. For now, he simply let himself go, feeling the emotions overwhelm him._

_He snarled to himself, rage beginning to press on the edge of his mind, and struggled against the chains holding him immobile. He released his bone blades, the deadly weapons straining against the restraints wrapped between them, and he howled in pain and agony as the sensitive nerves were pressed. _

_Suddenly there was silence, and he strained his ears for any sound, any indication of where they were. He knew that they were playing with him, making him think it was over for the moment, but he knew better, because he too is, was, a soldier and knew the games of torture better than any of them ever could. And he roared, because if they wanted to treat him like an animal, he would show them an animal. He needed to get free, to wreak his vengeance and taste their fear; to make them feel what it was to be hunted. But as hard as he tugged and yanked at the restraints, they wouldn't budge. And he knew that it was only wishful thinking to dream of tearing out their throats and ripping their hearts from their chests. _

_Then he heard it._

_They were coming for him, hungry wolves that tore at his flesh and lapped up his blood like dying men in the desert heat. He could hear their paws pounding on the ground, the anticipation and envy thick in the air, their excitement beating a rhythm in their run. _

_And he hated himself for wanting to hide. _

Unaware to everything around him, he pressed his back into a corner, a soft noise not unlike a keen emanating from his throat. His hands were raised, one twisted in his hair, pulling tight, while the other was in front of him, wrapped around his raised knees Unknown to him, the dangerously sharp blades on his forearms were raised, a clear signal to the others in the room that approaching him was unwise, as he might unconsciously lash out at any perceived threat.

He stayed in the corner, unconsciously rocking himself back and forth as he relived the torturous memories in his mind. He couldn't bring himself to do anything but moan, too confused and frightened to attempt to gain his bearings. He swallowed and tried to focus, but the voices were whispering in his head and clouding his vision, and he wished with everything he had that he would be left _alone_. Because he couldn't tell if the words were only in his head but he knew that the people were out _there_, waiting to hurt him at the slightest command. And how pathetic was he that all he could do was rock in a corner and wish to be dead and think to himself that he deserved anything more than this? How weak was he that he wanted Dylan and Beka and Rommie to save him, but didn't they do that already, didn't they come to his rescue and take him from that hellhole? But what if they hadn't and he woke up back in that cell and he knew if he did, he'd go insane; he'd lose every last shred of his mind because they were the only ones holding him back from the edge. And a small voice wondered if they had left him here to these creatures, to these men that wanted-no, needed- to destroy and everything that he was? Maybe they thought that he deserved this, that he needed to be destroyed and-

He stopped as he heard a tiny chime of a voice brush across his face, catching his attention; it was different than the dark, harsh voices from before. This one reminded him of a field with blue and yellow grass, of a sky made of purple and red and a silver-blue figure that gave him hope and strength. It was comforting and familiar, so he turned his head in the direction of the voice. He kept his eyes tightly closed and instead focused on the voice, feeling it wash over him, slightly calming his racing thoughts.

Without warning, a sharp prick bit his arm and he flinched away from it, afraid of what would come after. He wanted to struggle, but his senses were strange; they felt heavy and confused. He realized that something had changed but he was too tired to attempt to figure it out. A warm feeling was spreading slowly from his hand upwards through his arm, rushing down in his chest and flowing up to his neck. It cooled everything it touched; numbing all feeling and a soft sigh escaped him as his eyes dropped. Hands reached out to catch him, and he tried to flinch away, to run from the shadowy figures, but he was too comfortable and everything appeared hazy. _The liquid fire was rather soothing_, he thought, and then all thoughts left him as everything went dark.

//////

Looking in the mirror, Dylan groaned as he realized that he was going to have to throw out yet another outfit. Blood was impossible to get out of the material and he was completely drenched in it. Small spots lingered on his collar, splashes of red coloring his neck, the dried stickiness taunting him. He tilted his head slightly to the side, examining the splotches in the mirror with a faint sense of wonder and curiosity. _Such a simple thing, blood,_ he mused, and then he was snatched abruptly back, as he realized what he was doing.

Feeling suddenly nauseous, he spun away from the mirror, his breath catching as his stomach roiled in sympathy. He tightly clenched his eyes shut, forcing the churning thoughts deep down into the recesses of his mind. _Breathe, _he chanted to himself, _don't look at it, don't open your eyes, think of something-anything-else. It's just blood, just a few spots, not even enough to form a puddle. You've seen blood before; this is no different._

It's not every day you find yourself covered in a comrade's blood, but as the Captain of a warship, he had found it occurring more often than not. It should have bothered him but he had lived in a time of war, and he'd gotten over such things quickly. He'd had no choice but to accept the reality of a soldier's life and death.

Only this time, it was different, and he knew that, and it was making him sick. The blood on his clothes, the blood on his _hands, _was thick and it _itched_ and _oh, God_ it belonged to a friend, to a brother-in-arms that meant more than just that. It was _Rhade's _blood, and it was everywhere and smelled _sweet copper_ and-

He barely made it into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepped in, clothes and all, trying desperately to get the blood off. He scrubbed furiously at his face and neck, smearing the blood even more, watching the pink swirls at his feet and not caring that the water was scorching hot. As the steam billowed around him and filled the small room, Dylan winced as he felt new blood trickling down his neck; forced himself to calm down at the realization that he had literally scrubbed parts of his own skin raw.

Turning down the heat of the spray, he leaned against the wall, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he slowly calmed his racing heart. Feeling the water finally begin to cool, he allowed it to wash over him, removing the rest of the blood that wasn't his, and hissed as it hit the now raw parts of his skin. _It was ironic, really, _he mused to himself, _that the cold could make something else feel like it was burning. Fire out of ice, _he snorted, _not something you see every day. Next thing you know, mountains will shift and the sky will open up and I'll find myself back in time 300 years before this whole mess started. Hell, while we're thinking of the impossible, how about the Magog signing a treaty for universal peace? Maybe they'll join the Commonwealth! Wouldn't that be just brilliant?_

Feeling his thoughts begin to race out of control with panic, and hysteria rising in him again, he closed his eyes tightly, clamping his teeth together so tight his jaw clicked, and focused on his breathing, knowing that he could ill-afford to lose it. He needed to get strict control over himself, and fast. He was the Captain of a war-ship, damn it, he was better than this!

After a few moments that felt far from brief, he opened his eyes and continued with a normal shower. Removing his clothes with mechanical movements, he concentrated on keeping iron control over his emotions as he finished, knowing that he needed to keep his head straight for everyone else's sake. Most important of all, he needed to keep his cool for Rhade. Dylan didn't try to think of anything different; he knew that out of everyone on the ship, he was the one most likely to have the chance of fixing-no, _helping_-Rhade. He wasn't broken, wasn't damaged and therefore, didn't need _fixing_; Rhade simply needed some help and Dylan refused to think otherwise, even when he knew that he was only fooling himself.

Deep down, other thoughts lingered with his stamped down emotions. In this place, he could think on his fears about Rhade's recovery and dwell on his anger towards the monster that had done this to his friend. A man without a conscience is not a man, but a monster, someone who could commit such cruelty and torment on others couldn't be considered human. Complete apathy is the key to nothingness, he thought, and indifference to life is the path to evil acts. And then he laughed, a harsh and bitter sound, because when had he become so philosophical? A soldier doesn't think on the moralities of his actions, on the reasons and the drive behind his orders. He follows blindly and doesn't lead because a soldier is good only for his inability to form his own morals.

Turning the shower off and stepping out, he looked into the mirror across the room, fogged by steam and condensation from the heat of the shower. He swiped a hand across the surface, a smear of water left in the wake, and he leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the counter. He stared at his reflection and fought the urge to shatter it, to feel the glass bite into his knuckles, to watch the red drops splatter the sink and the mirror and himself. His body physically shook as he reined it all in, knowing that he was fighting a loosing battle and he tried desperately to win anyway. Because he couldn't give in to the emotions threaten to drown him, he couldn't let the pain and anger and desperation win, and he had no other option than to fight. But he was _tired_ damn it; tired of having to be strong, tired of shouldering the burden and tired of watching the people he cared about hurt.

He was a man 300 years out of his time, seeking to repair a civilization that had long been broken and destroyed. His people were gone, his government, his love, his whole way of life. And when he had realized that, he'd ignored it, because it was easier to think of the way things _could_ be than to dwell on the way things _were._ He'd fought other people, other ships, other souls that were just as lost as he was but unable to hide it like he did; he'd destroyed worlds and lives, found allies and enemies alike, and tried to restore his Commonwealth. But when it came to _his_ people, to _his _family and_ his _friends_,_ he couldn't seem to do anything right. He couldn't keep them safe, from themselves or from anything else. He couldn't stop them from hurting, couldn't keep them loyal, and couldn't keep other people from trying to destroy them, be it mentally or physically.

And that was the real truth of the matter, the part that hit him like a knife in the heart.

He'd failed one of his own, something he had sworn never to do after he'd lost it all before. And though he could only admit this to himself, alone in his quarters and away from prying eyes, it was made worse by exactly who he had let down.

_Rhade._

Because while he'd hate it if it was Beka or Harper or Trance lying in the infirmary, bruised and bloody and completely fucking _shattered_, the pain was made ten times worse by it being Rhade.

With a guttural roar, he lost control and slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards. The pieces of glasses rained down on him and around him, landing on the floor and the counter, drawing blood on his arms and feet. He stared at the shards, and a tiny voice whispered in his head of the similarities between the glistening broken pieces and Rhade's state of mind; how the mirror had broken easily and just as cleanly, when the proper amount of force had been applied. Was this how Rhade had been broken, through pain and threats and _torture_ because what else would have broken him, after three months of nothing but? He certainly didn't blame Rhade, sure as hell didn't think any of this was the Nietzschean's fault, and how dare he stand here fucking losing it when Rhade was the one in pain and in trouble! But he couldn't make it _stop_, couldn't make the thoughts and regret and the damned guilt from swallowing him whole and he knew he was spiraling into an abyss but he couldn't do a thing except break and was this how Rhade had felt? Abandoned and lost and afraid and-

"Captain? Captain, are you alright? Captain Hunt? Captain!"

He had never been more grateful to hear the _Andromeda_ before in his life, not even when she saved his life or made an impossible break for safety.

Blinking, he shook his head and took a deep breath, thankful for the distraction from his own damning thoughts. He looked at the mess on the ground and then looked away, not wanting to think about what had happened and why his mirror was broken. _That's seven years bad luck_ he mused, and laughed at how absurd the statement was, considering he'd already had plenty of years bad luck and what was seven more? Sighing, he realized that _Andromeda_ was speaking again, and he knew he should answer her before she did something rash like send Rommie or-God forbid- _Beka_ to check on him.

"I'm fine. I just had a little accident. Nothing to worry about."

"Captain, are you sure? Your vitals were all well over the appropriate levels a few minutes ago. Is there something wrong?" There was a slight hint of concern in her voice, but all Dylan could think of was the last thing she'd said.

_Is there something wrong? Well, let's see. How about the fact that one of my crew members is lying on a bed covered with bruises and blood and all of our bandages, hooked to a large amount of monitors? How about the thought that he's completely lost it, judging on the TWO times he has been conscious, and he flipped out thinking we were there to hurt him? No? Well, how about the bastard that did this getting away before I could show him the meaning of pain? I don't know. What could POSSIBLY be wrong?_

But he didn't say that, knowing that would only invite more problems for him; instead, he settled on a simple reassurance. He wanted-no, needed- to be alone and if she was concerned for him, he'd never get it.

"No, I'm sure. Everything's alright."

"Alright, Captain. If you're sure…"

"I am." His voice was firm and invited no argument.

"Yes, Captain."

With that final reply, Dylan sighed as he knew that he was finally alone again. He really didn't need someone checking on him, and he could trust her to leave him be for now. The bathroom was a wreck and he didn't feel like cleaning it up at the moment, so he went into his room and got dressed, using the few minutes to center himself. His hand wasn't bleeding much, thankfully, but would probably need to get checked by Trance to make sure it didn't need any stitches for the few somewhat deep scratches. He felt his breath catch as he realized that that would mean stepping into the infirmary and seeing Rhade again, and if he was honest with himself, he wasn't too sure that would be a good idea right now.

_No, really? You just decked a mirror for looking at you, you idiot_. And exactly when had that voice gotten so sarcastic? Dylan almost started laughing when he realized that that little voice sounded like a mixture of Beka and Rhade. Thinking of Rhade made all the humor disappear, however, and he found himself sitting on the floor of his quarters, back to the side of the bed and his head leaning against it.

Wise men always say that the first step to conquering your fear is facing it. But they never tell you where to get the strength to do so.

But what was it that he feared? Pain? Death? He laughed out loud, a harsh and bitter sound, because he, Dylan Hunt, had conquered death a very long time ago. It was the first step in becoming a soldier, in accepting the mortality of the human being. Every soldier has a death wish because every soldier has that part of themselves that wonders when they will get the peace that they deal unto others. They face death every time they go into battle or war and they feel the exhilaration that only the living can when they come out alive. But a part of them deep down wonders, when they are in the privacy of their bunk or the silence of sleep, what it's like to go up against death and lose; what it's like to die. There were times when Dylan had felt that way, but unlike others, he had gotten the chance. He'd touched death and felt it breathing down his neck and he had still come out the victor. But what he did know, however, was that death has its own way of evening the score and for a man who had no fear of dying himself, death could still come for the ones he cared about.

No, Dylan knew that he didn't fear death or pain, but failure. He'd survived a lot of things in his life, seen a lot of pain and horror, but he had never faced this kind of fear and crippling defeat before.

He feared failure, not for himself, but then for whom? Was it in him failing his friend, his brother, his family? Or was it that he was afraid of failing to save someone that he cared about, afraid of failing to give him the vengeance and peace he deserved?

No, his deepest fear was that no matter what he did, it wouldn't be enough. He was afraid that he would give anything, do everything, and the end result would be nothing but agony. What he feared the most was that Rhade would decide that he couldn't live with what had been done to him; that Rhade would believe that his only choice was nothingness.

Because he had seen it in his eyes. He had seen the wild fear of the living and the desperate death of the unattained. He'd seen panic and he'd seen fear, hopelessness and desperation. But what he'd feared the most was defeat and in his eyes, those cornered and trapped eyes, he had seen it. He had looked into Rhade's eyes and seen only death staring back at him.

He'd seen someone who had given everything he had inside himself and found that it wasn't enough to step back from the ledge, and he'd seen someone that didn't care whether or not they did.

And the sight was enough to send chills racing down his spine.

As he thought back on the events-was it really just a few hours ago?-that occurred in the infirmary, he felt the chills return.

Rhade had been less than coherent when he'd woken up, if he could even call it that. For almost two days he'd laid there, eyes open and blank, the glassy stare of someone dead or damn near close to it. It'd been disconcerting to look at, and despite anyone's efforts they'd been unable to get him to respond. After some debate, they'd decided to allow only Trance and Dylan near him for extended periods of time, letting Beka in for the occasional visit. They were afraid of his reaction to a large amount of people constantly hovering over him; as Trance had pointed out, if Rhade could sense too many people around him, he might choose not to wake up, not knowing that he was safe. Privately, Dylan agreed and was somewhat relieved; he remembered Rhade's reaction back on the ship when Dylan had tried to help him and he knew that they were all going to have to tread very carefully around the wounded Nietzschean if he was to recover. _That's if he does_, his mind had whispered treacherously and Dylan had ruthlessly stamped such thoughts down.

He'd been ecstatic when Rhade had begun showing signs of waking, fingers twitching with slight movements on the bed; Dylan had felt relief lighten his heart and a weight lifting off his shoulders. For a moment, he'd felt something akin to hope and relief spark in his chest, and the brief thought that everything would be okay. He'd forgotten, for a moment, exactly why and how Rhade had ended up in the infirmary; forgotten about the demons that still faced his wounded friend. Dylan really should have known better.

A few seconds later, all hell had broken loose.

Rhade had immediately panicked, hands scratching and clawing at his face with a fury and vengeance that had been terrifying. Dylan and Beka had moved forward, attempting to both restrain and calm him, giving Trance the time to grab a sedative. All three had used soothing words and voices to get through to the rabid Nietzschean, but it'd had little effect in calming him. Instead, the opposite occurred; Rhade had grown even more frantic and began to strike out at them with his fists and arms. Beka and Trance had been forced to move back, their strength no match against the fully pissed off Rhade, while Dylan steadfastly maintained his position to almost no avail. Desperately, he'd grabbed hold of his arms at the wrists, only to have Rhade grow even more aggressive. Their pleas had fallen on deaf ears and they were shocked when Rhade had fallen still with no warning. Hopeful, Trance had attempted to get his attention, thinking that they had finally gotten through to him; to their disappointment, he simply stared dazedly around him.

Dylan could still remember how hard his heart had pounded at Rhade's next movements. Without warning, Rhade had immediately tensed up and growled at the group, before flipping off the bed and scrambling into the corner of the room. He'd continued to growl at the group, the noise accompanied by a keen of pain and fear, and Dylan had been hard pressed to keep his emotions under control. Those emotions had turned quickly to ice cold fear, the kind that freezes a person in their tracks and prevents all thought. The way Rhade looked at them had made his chest _hurt_, knowing that the fear in his eyes was caused by their presence alone. And Dylan was afraid that nothing they could do would make it go away. Hell, he wasn't even sure how to get close enough to Rhade to calm him down, let alone convince him that they weren't going to hurt him in any way.

Luckily, Trance had been able to move and she quickly took advantage of the situation. She'd darted forward before either Dylan or Beka could stop her and crouched slowly to the side of Rhade, speaking to him in slow, soft tones. And for a brief moment, he had looked at her, lowering his arms out of their defensive positions; using his confusion and unawareness, Trance had struck, sedating him with the needle she had kept out of his line of sight. Dylan had managed to catch Rhade as he'd fallen forward, the sedative acting quickly to put him unconscious and with Trance and Beka's help, they'd returned him to the bed. Asleep, Rhade looked less haunted and more like himself, but Dylan knew that under the façade was a whirlwind of pain and hurt. He couldn't face it; instead, he'd run to the safety and solitude of his room, trying to leave the images of Trance bandaging the fresh wounds on his skin, the injuries that Rhade had done to himself, back in the infirmary. And a part of him sneered at the coward he was, unable to face the damage he had brought on Rhade; and he snarled to himself at how pathetic he was, that he needed to hide in his room like a child afraid to face the monsters that lived in the closet.

He shook his head as he came out of the memories, trying to ignore the thoughts that were screaming in his head. Feeling restless, Dylan stood up and prowled around the room, halting his rounds as he came upon his desk. He glanced over the items, stopping as his eyes caught the edge of a red leather-bound journal; he hadn't written in it in months, having never had the time or the focus, especially with Rhade missing. He'd barely even slept in those three months, let alone found the time to write in a journal that he'd never really cared for to begin with. Staring at the cover, he remembered how he'd occasionally written down the thoughts and events that bothered him during his life; looking back on them later had sometimes made them clearer, helped him focus on the reasons things happened. Something was nagging at him from the edge of his mind, some event that was floating just out of reach, but he couldn't seem to remember the details. He swallowed hard as the compulsion to search through the journal until he found the correct page rose within him, and idly he wondered if it would just be easier to give in and glance at its pages. Maybe it would calm his nerves to have something else to focus on. Maybe he would be able to forget the image of Rhade huddled in the corner of a blood-splattered room, waiting and wishing for death.

Reaching out, he picked up the journal and flipped through its pages, looking for the entry, knowing that it was one of his older ones. He stopped on a half-filled page, his breathing shallow as he stared down at the words, and a flash of apprehension went through him as he remembered the events of the words he was reading. He'd been on a planet for trading purposes and had been returning to his ship when he'd been approached by a strange woman. She had looked into his eyes and delivered a message before disappearing into the crowd around them. He'd never been able to explain the encounter and in truth, had pushed it to the back of his mind. But he had written the message down in his journal that night, unable to remove the haunting words from his mind any other way. Glancing down at the journal, he froze as the words stared up at him from the page:

"_Death follows in your footsteps and walks in your head, sharing your thoughts and writing your dreams. It seeks to find a path of its own, by destroying yours and shaping it into something different. Be careful, War Captain; while you may not be able to die, you still have much you can lose to death." _

Dylan had never believed in prophecy or fate. He'd lived his life as he always had, day to day, dream to dream and he had never looked back, until the events some 300 years past that had reshaped his entire world. Even then, he had never considered that they were destined to happen or meant anything other than what they were: a series of events that were shaped by the consequences of his actions and choices.

But looking down at that page, remembering the whispered words of a prophetess on some distant planet, Dylan wondered if maybe the universe played its own little chess game, with the people in its view nothing more than its' pawns.

And a part of him wondered if they had ever had any chance of winning at all.

///

_A tangle of strings makes an artwork, a tapestry of connections and links from one string to another. Find the right string, and it may lead you to the one that you seek. Pull the wrong one, and unravel the entire work. And when that happens, all that is left is the tangled remains of a once-beautiful piece._

_Not even an iron frame can hold a loose net in its grasp. _

_A single figure stands on the edge of a cliff, two paths from which to choose. Step forward, and go over the edge, but the question remains: where does it lead? _

_Option 2: Step back and retrace the path, going over footsteps that have already been made. But is turning back the better option, considering that every step that has been made led you to this cliff in the first place? Do you make the same choices, knowing the consequences? Or do you make different ones, hoping for a better outcome? Is it possible to make all the same choices in the exact same order and yet receive a different answer?_

_How do you choose? _

_Is there really any choice?_

_Or is it all just an illusion?_

_///_

End Chapter 2.

Authors note: Again, I apologize at the delay of this chapter; I realize it took me longer than a month to post this. I thank you very much for your patience!

Normally I wouldn't ask, but I would really appreciate it if I could get some feedback, so please read and review? Thanks!

The translation of this chapters' title is: "Pessum Ire of Animus" = "Destroyer of Souls"

Chapter 3 will have a title of "Victum Dominus". For your patience and support, I'll go ahead and give you the translation.

"Victum Dominus" = "Conquering Master


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